"The world... ravaged... the sun beat down on the carbon stricken rock. Civilisation... a distant memory. Human-robot sex... the norm. Each day, every day, survival and ... how? this-thus."

A not too distant, distant too hot near-future.

Thursday, 21 April 2011

Vinny

It was hard to place Vincent on the optimist-pessimist scale, let's just say he was more a glass half-smashed into your face kind of guy. Steroid abuse, bullied as a youth at school and on street, a knuckle-dragging IQ score and an aversion to being looked at or spoken to the wrong way – “wrong” here not to be confused with a consistent, standard bearing, signifier – tends to do that to some men. The clumsy approximation of tribal war tattoos across his face and shaven scalp, no doubt, were intended to add to the singular furrow of menace he tried his best to cultivate. He was unaware of just how ridiculous he looked, largely because no one thought to mentioned it, at least on the basis that anyone so stupid as to have such ludicrous markings permanently etched into their visage, was bound to be dangerous; so, after a fashion, he'd achieved the desired effect. But for all Vinny's faults, he stuck by his friends through thick and thin, for better and worse, can't even say that about most marriages these days; he was oddly old-fashioned in that way.